


Viscount Tewky

by Juliette24



Category: Enola Holmes (2020), Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Merciless teasing, Tewkesbury is a sweetie and Enola just cannot deal, but also emotional bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:40:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29836143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juliette24/pseuds/Juliette24
Summary: When Enola discovers the childhood nickname of Viscount Tewkesbury Marquess of Basilwether, he knows he will receive no mercy whatsoever.
Relationships: Enola Holmes/Viscount "Tewky" Tewksbury
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61





	Viscount Tewky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gayrefrain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayrefrain/gifts).



> Happy belated birthday, gayrefrain! Thanks for giving me an excuse to write about these cuties.

The more annoyed that Enola became with Tewkesbury, the more ludicrous his title became. Normally, her favorite thing to do was to call him by his full title, despite how much of a mouthful it was: Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether. However, whenever he asked her a pointed and, in his opinion, reasonable question about what her plan was when she plunged headfirst into a mystery without thinking through all the consequences, she’d click her tongue and call him a bungled up title instead. Her creativity was astoundingly and progressively elaborate. Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Bothersomeshire. Viscount Tewkesbury, Maddening Marquess of Blighters. Vazey Viscount Tewkesbury, Milkweed Marquess of Blisterwether.

Tewkesbury had a headache just remembering a few of her biting titles for him. But he had to say that those insulting titles were nothing compared to her discovering his childhood nickname.

It started with his mother bringing Enola to dinner. Enola had been responsible for one of Mum’s acquaintances finding her long lost twin sister after their separation at birth, which Tewkesbury was still trying to puzzle out the details of. Mum had brought Enola to the manor, holding one of Enola’s hands with both of hers as she hurriedly cried to their butler to prepare a new setting for their world-class detective guest. Tewkesbury may have stumbled a bit on his way to kiss Enola’s hand, but when he looked up at her, her flushed smile made his efforts utterly worth it.

Mum had Tewky sit at the head of the table, as she always did and as he always hated. Every time he would pull out his chair, he would panic for a moment, thinking that he was stealing his father’s seat, only to remember too late. As a result, whenever he sat down for a meal, he had an undercurrent of melancholy twinging on his spirit. Today, Enola squinted at him and cupped her chin.

“Something on your mind, Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether?” she asked.

He opened his mouth to answer that she was the detective who was renowned for reading minds through the twitch of an eyebrow, but then his mother gushed like hot water spilling out of a teapot cap.

“Why darling, there is no need to be so formal with us,” she said. “You’re a member of our family - or at least I hope you will be, officially, one day. Isn’t that so, Tewky?”

Enola and Tewkesbury spat up their tea at the same time. He didn’t know whether he did it because of his mother’s horrifically embarrassing insinuation, or because of that detestable nickname that had almost made him run from home four years before he actually did. He looked up, desperate to know if Enola would leap from the table and fly all the way to India just to avoid his eyes, but he saw that her nose and eyes were crinkling with laughter as she dabbed her face with a napkin. 

“I-I beg your pardon,” said Enola. “I was a bit surprised… what did you call him?”

Mum’s forehead wrinkled like tissue paper. “Tewky?”

Tewkesbury cleared his throat. “It’s an old nickname from when I was younger, but no one calls me that anymore.”

He shot a pointed look at Mum.

“I’m certain I do not know why that name has gone out of fashion,” said Enola. “I find it quite fitting for you.”

If Mum weren’t here, he would catapult a spoonful of sugar at her, but instead he stirred it into his tea and shook his head with a rueful smile.

“You should have seen him when he was a child,” said Mum. “Tewky was like my own Little Lord Fauntleroy come to life!”

Tewkesbury wished to melt into his chair and perish.

* * *

Enola, on the other hand, hatched a brilliant idea. She clasped her hands together and, with a suggestion of a pout, said: “That sounds incredibly precious. Would there happen to be photographs?”

Lady Basilwether gasped, as Enola knew she would. “Of course! Would you care to see them?”

“We couldn’t possibly bore our guest with baby photos!” cried Tewkesbury.

“Oh, nonsense,” replied Lady Basilwether.

As Enola suppressed a giggle, she thought Tewkesbury looked cute when he panicked.

When Lady Basilwether presented the portrait photos with motherly pride, Enola felt a simultaneous thrill of giddiness and cringe of chagrin on Tewkesbury’s behalf. _Little Lord Fauntleroy_ inspired the ugliest, basest depths of high fashion for boys of their social class: puffy frilly lace, black velvet, white stockings, and satin bows. Apparently, Tewkesbury’s hair was even longer than it was when Enola first met him, and even more astonishing, it was curly. His locks were spun in perfect ringlets as he stared at the camera with an even stonier expression than was expected in portraits.

Glancing up, Enola saw that Tewkesbury was shading his eyes, but she also noticed that his ears were scarlet. Enola knew she should be feeling ashamed for how far she was pushing this, but, sadly, the only thing she loved more than solving a mystery was making fun of her favorite marquess.

“How old is dear Tewky here?” asked Enola, pointing to a photo with a saccharine smile.

Lady Basilwether sighed. “He had just turned twelve years old.”

“ _Twelve_?” 

Enola couldn’t restrain her astonishment as she sat up. Tewkesbury whimpered. Lady Basilwether collected the photos and hugged them to her chest, humming with childlike cheerfulness.

Enola looked again at Tewkesbury, whose scarlet ears had infected his entire face; he looked like an overripe tomato about to spill out its juices. Her heart panged despite herself, and she changed the subject to how Lady Basilwether first met Lady Worthington, the woman whose twin sister that Enola had found. That set off Lady Basilwether on her own childhood reminiscence that lasted them through dessert, after which Enola asked if she could take a proper walk through the grounds before she left. She was so often caught up on the game afoot that she didn’t take the chance to appreciate her surroundings, and considering Tewkesbury’s aptitude for flowers, she was intrigued to see how much he had influenced the florigraphical makeup of the grounds. 

Enola intended to wander alone, but Lady Basilwether clapped her hands and said: “Delightful! Tewky, give her the grand tour.”

Tewkesbury, who had not uttered a word since the photographs, nodded and stood up with a garnished poise that betrayed none of the mortification that Enola knew was grounding him up inside. She expected him to look down at her with irritation, but instead he offered his hand and smiled like he did when she first met him, as sweet and delicate as a petal that was unfurling for the morning sunshine. Enola did not think she was much of a sunshine to smile at. More like a cold wind on a moor. Still, she accepted his hand and walked with him out of the dining area to the gardens.

Her suspicions were right. She saw his hand everywhere from how cheerfully the flowers bloomed in all colors of the rainbow, stretching their leaves like friends about to embrace you. A wild scent inflamed her nostrils, making her want to run into the middle of the field and roll around in it, tossing and tangling her hair such that the next hairbrush that saw her would tremble. 

As Tewkesbury walked alongside her, she looked at the gray grime in the corners of his nails and the calluses on his fingers; he tended the gardens with his own hands, and no amount of scrubbing could remove all the evidence. Enola had seen plenty of perfect polished hands of dukes and lords and other affluent gentlemen, but she liked the unassuming roughness of Tewkesbury’s hands. Like he wasn’t afraid to work hard. She wondered how it would feel if she were to take his hand right now and gently knead his calluses with her own fingers.

“What do you think?”

Tewkesbury’s question jolted Enola so badly that her hat tumbled off her head and she released an indiscernible squawk. Then before she could blink, he picked up the hat, brushed off the dust, and delicately placed it on her head like it was a crown.

“I was asking what you think of the gardens?” asked Tewkesbury, tilting his head and smiling at her, as if she hadn’t just made a ghastly fool of herself.

Enola sniffed. 

“You have a lovely garden…” A wicked smile overtook her, and she added, “ _Tewky_.”

She expected him to click his tongue, or roll his eyes, or show some other form of irritation like Mycroft would in his place, but instead Tewksbury shut his eyes and sighed.

“This was not how I imagined your first dinner with my family to go,” he said.

“You really do hate that nickname, don’t you?” said Enola.

He raised his eyebrows. “You’ve seen the photographs. I think you’ll understand why.”

Attracted to a fluffy pink flower in front of him, Tewkesbury walked to a bush and fished out a cutting tool from his pocket, making Enola wonder if he always carried it for such an occasion.

“I will admit it was not your most attractive look—” (not that Enola thought about Tewkesbury’s attractive looks, mind you) “—but if it makes you feel better, many boys like you have been subjected to the Fauntleroy Method.”

“Have they been subjected to it until the age of twelve?” asked Tewkesbury, clipping the flower stem with one snap.

Enola winced. “Was it all your mother’s doing?”

“My father—and I—tolerated it when I was younger, because we wanted to please her. Then…” Tewkesbury fiddled with the flower, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. “Then after my father died, she seemed to want me to be a child forever.”

“Tewkesbury…”

“Don’t look at me like that.” 

Humor flickered in his eyes, but he couldn’t quite manage the smile he intended. He tucked the flower into his front pocket. 

“It’s all right,” he continued. “I grew up anyway, and I grew out of that awful Fauntleroy hair. Except now, I can’t even properly enjoy _A Little Princess_ because of how much bitterness I hold against Frances Hodgson Burnett.”

“If I ever encounter her, I will give her a good thrashing for you,” said Enola.

“Please don’t,” said Tewkesbury, looking hard into Enola’s eyes, as if he thought she would actually throttle an author on his behalf.

Then again, maybe he was right to be worried. Enola tipped her hat at him, like she had often seen Sherlock do to seem polite, when he had every intention to do as he pleased anyway.

“Very well, if you insist,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes. Enola didn’t appreciate how unfooled he looked; it was an expression that she had been seeing on his face more and more, like he knew what she was thinking. Shaking her head, she skipped ahead of him, and he took extra long strides to follow alongside her.

“I suppose I shall continue referring to you by your rightful title, Viscount Tewkesbury, Marquess of Basilwether,” said Enola. 

“Actually…” Tewkesbury cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t mind if you called me Tewky. If you really wanted to.”

Enola flipped about to face him, causing her heels to grate against the dirt. “Why?”

He sucked in a tight breath, which hollowed his cheeks even more than normal, then released a nervous laugh.

“It’s not as many syllables as my full title,” said Tewkesbury. “I thought you might be feeling worn out by saying it.”

Enola smiled. “I have fun saying the whole thing. How about a combination, Viscount Tewky, Mar-tewky of Tewky-wether?”

Tewkesbury snorted, which made her feel giddy.

“Goodness, that’s awful,” he said.

“That was not my cleverest work,” Enola admitted. “Let’s leave it to whatever suits me day to day.”

“As you please,” said Tewkesbury.

“Indeed.” Enola chuckled. “I can understand having contradictory feelings about your name though. Did you realize that my name spelled backwards is ‘Alone’?”

“No, I hadn’t.”

“My mother is a fan of word games, so I can’t imagine it was an accident. She always told me that I would do very well on my own, like she was preparing me since I was little for her to leave me. Which, I suppose she did.”

Tewkesbury knew better than to look at Enola when she said that. Instead, he plucked out the pink flower from his front pocket and handed it to her. She held the flower to her nose and took a deep breath.

“Then again, my brothers’ names are Tforcym and Kcolrehs spelled backward, so perhaps I shouldn’t read into it too much,” Enola continued, relieved that her voice sounded chipper instead of stilted.

“What’s my name spelled backwards?” asked Tewkesbury.

“Yrubsekwet,” Enola replied.

She realized too late how incriminating her speedy response was. And that his question was rhetorical. Tewkesbury looked at her with wide eyes and—dare she say—a rosy flush in his cheeks, before Enola turned away. She shielded her eyes from the setting sunlight as her gaze roamed over the seemingly endless flowers before them.

“Well, I suppose I should take my leave,” said Enola.

“Oh.”

Enola saw a subdued shadow overtake his face, the same one she had seen on him when they first sat down for dinner. There was nothing worse than a sad Tewkesbury. Her mother had taught her to slow down for no one, especially a man, and Sherlock had taught her much the same from how he approached a case, so Enola found it, not exactly easy, but certainly doable to walk away from a sad Tewkesbury. Or at least she used to. Maybe it was the glassiness in his eyes. Maybe it was their conversation about his father that made her think of her own father. Maybe it was the empty boarding room that was waiting for her as soon as she left. Maybe it was that she was having fun walking with him and she wanted to go on doing it for as long as she could, simply because she could.

Whatever the reason, she joined Tewkesbury’s side, slid her hand around the inside of his elbow, and said, “Unless there was something else you wished to show me.”

His smile could melt the polar ice caps. He touched her hand.

“It would be my pleasure, Enola.”

**Author's Note:**

> One of the few disappointments I have with the movie is how it never mentions the Tewky nickname. It's my favorite part of Enola's dynamic with him in the book! I thoroughly enjoyed blending the details of Tewky's character from the book with the movie. My only complaint now is that I have no idea whether Tewkesbury or Tewksbury is the correct spelling at this point.


End file.
